Skeen's Return (30 page)

As the sun dropped lower and lower in the western sky and the wind continued to freshen, the ship was purged of its filth and corpses (not the crew dead, they were sewn into canvas and waited in a corner of the quarterdeck for the proper time and the proper distance from the Min dead; they waited until the decks were clean and Maggí had time and energy to give them a proper send-off, though with the heat being what it was and dead flesh being what it was, they couldn't wait too long). Skeen had about exhausted her meager supply of antibiotics on the worst of the wounded, Timka and Pegwai had cut and sewn and bandaged until their eyes were crossing with weariness. The cook went back to his galley when Pegwai came down; he got busy with his pots and fires. The galley was a hell all its own in that heat, but he was used to it and glad to get away from the miseries of the sickbay.

Up at the masthead, Lipitero stirred, stretched, moving with some care. As the wind blew stronger, the sway of the mast was increasing, and she was getting dizzy. She adjusted the hover field to let her down slowly, she got a good grip on the excavator, slipped off the platform and drifted to the quarterdeck.

She glanced at the canvas bundles, sighed, and turned her back on them. She resorbed the handgrips and reformed the cube, tucked the excavator into its case and clicked the lid home. She reached down, scooped up the robe and squatted looking at it. In the bustle of the battle, the crew had tramped across it, it was still damp with her sweat, a filthy rag. She draped it over her arm, caught hold of the case and rose to her feet. She moved to the forerail, rested the case on it, and looked out over the ship. A scratch crew was working the ship, the others, she presumed, either wounded or getting some rest. In the deckwell the passengers were gathered about several lanterns eating a hot meal, talking (she couldn't make out individual words, but the tone made her smile a little, she heard fatigue and satisfaction mixed), children laughing and excited, indulged by their parents in a way they seldom enjoyed, enjoying it as fully as they could because they knew how brief the license would be. She lingered watching the strange children play—only a few children—five or six, a leaven in the adult loaf like the children in Sydo Gather. The whole inside of her ached as she watched; she hungered for her own then, she needed them around her, the smells and sounds, the warmth of other Ykx, Ykx voices, Ykx laughter, Ykx … well … vibrations. She was alone and it was like death; for the first time she truly understood those Ykx penned alone by the Chalarosh, she understood their willing themselves to die; the pain of that total separation from her kind struck so deep, only the hope of finally ending that pain made it endurable. She reminded herself of her reasons for being here, shook off the malaise and went below.

From being becalmed, the Goum Kiskar blew into a ferocious storm and blew out again in less than an hour, then settled to a fitful progress across the remaining stretch of the Halijara. After the storm, more cleaning up. Work on sails and rigging, pump out the deckwell. Bumps and bruises among the passengers, one broken leg, several broken heads. By the day after the storm, the lightly wounded were back on their feet thanks to Skeen's drugs and Pegwai's needles and Timka's tending, able to do some of the lighter work and let some of their fellows snatch a little rest. And the badly hurt were resting comfortably without the fever that killed more than the original wounds. Maggí came down several times to visit the sickbay; she walked from one pallet to another, kneeling beside each to tease the man gently, to pat him a little, rising to move to the next. She nodded to Timka as she left, and went to find Lipitero.

Quarterdeck. Early afternoon. Hot and steamy, a brisk wind, Goum Kiskar slicing through glittering water. Lipitero standing unrobed, the wind playing through her crimped silver-gray fur, her heavily metaled harness glowing richly gold in the sunlight filtering through the sails and shrouds.

MAGGÍ:
You're opening the Gate for Skeen.

LIPITERO:
Yes. Or why would I be here.

MAGGÍ:
That's a question I've wondered about.

LIPITERO:
No doubt.

MAGGÍ:
There aren't many Ykx left on Mistommerk.

LIPITERO:
We don't make ourselves obtrusive.

MAGGÍ:
That's no answer. Ah, forget that, if you wanted to answer you would have. Skeen isn't talking either, so I have to guess. There's something on the far side the Ykx want. Or need. It's my guess you're passing through to get it and coming back with it. You'll need transport?”

LIPITERO:
It's not something I want to talk about.

MAGGÍ:
I suppose your reasons don't matter all that much. There's something I want you to do for me.

LIPITERO:
I'll listen, Maggí. I owe you.

MAGGÍ:
I was in sickbay just now. Petro, three years ago the pirates round Tail End were hungrier than usual and hitting anything that floated past. We had a bad time with them, I had six crew wounded in that fight. One in the belly; you know this world, you know what that meant. He was begging us to kill him by the time we made the next port. Houms offered, but I couldn't let him do my job. Two others died from the fever. Of the three that lived, two are still with me, one never got well enough to work again, he's living in Karolsey. I go to see him most times I'm there. He was cook's help, Petro, a baby. He's not twenty yet, and he's an old man. I'm always expecting to find him dead each time I drop anchor there. I think about that, then I think about Skeen and her hand, how close she was to dying and how fast she recovered once she used her own medicines. I think about that other time and I go down and see the wounded from this fight. I feel cool heads, I see clean wounds, I see a man hurt worse than Tefote was already up and mending sail. And what's the difference, Petro, what's the whole difference? Skeen's pharmacopoeia. Petro, I want those drugs. Not just a stock, but a continuing supply. I don't want to do Lifefire's grace on more of my friends, I don't want to see another boy go from puberty to senility with nothing between.

LIPITERO:
Shouldn't you be talking with Skeen about that? What do I know about the far side?

MAGGÍ:
I like Skeen, but I know Skeen. She's impulsive, generous. If I was in a tight place, I can think of few others I'd rather have at my back. But I wouldn't want to depend on her, not for something that meant she'd have to meet a schedule, not for something that was supposed to continue for a long time. Oh, I could probably get her to agree to be my supplier, and she'd come through once, maybe twice, then she'd slide away. She'd have the best excuses, but the end would be the same. No, if it can be done, you're the one to do it, Petra. Get Skeen's help if you want, but remember what I said. Don't do it for me, do it for the Ykx. Think of the market for these drugs. Me, but I'm only one. There are hundreds—no thousands—who would be as eager as I am to have a way to fight the killing fevers. Say nothing now, just think about it.

MORE GROUND (OCEAN) TO GET ACROSS. DO I GO FOR TEDIOUS DETAIL OR SKIM LIGHTLY ALONG THE PEAKS? CONSIDER HOW LITTLE SUBSTANCE INTERVALS OF PEACE OFFER TO THE TELLER OF QUEST TALES (OR ANY OTHER SORT). OUR HEROES SLIP-SLIDE ALONG SLEEPING AND EATING AND PASSING THE TEDIOUS HOURS WITH TALES OF THEIR OWN FROM MORE ADVENTUROUS TIMES. HM, THIS SOUNDS LIKE A LEAD-IN TO SOME STORY TELLING. NO, I THINK NOT. I'M RATHER TIRED OF THAT PLOY. I THINK I'LL TRY THE NARRATIVE SUMMARY BIT INSTEAD.

There is a kind of peace that comes after a killer storm, more exhaustion than peace, the time before the survivors gather themselves and start again. As the days pass, Timka begins to think they are in such a period, that the Kalakal Ravvayad have exhausted their resources for the moment with that abortive attack in Sikuro, that Telka has wasted her last out-Mountain resources with the gunja defeat and will wait for Skeen and Timka to come to her. The Goum Kiskar drops anchor in the harbor at Karolsey. They visit the ancient poet Nanojan Sogan. They drop passengers, take on new after warning them there could be trouble ahead. They drop some cargo, take on more. Skeen talks Maggí into breaking away from her usual route up the Tail and darting across the short stretch of open sea between Tail End and the outer Bers and Bretels of the Spray, Maggí, reluctant because of her daughter and the crew who are as important to her, putting aside that reluctance because she'd have Timka and Chulji flying watch and Lipitero ready to use the clumsy but effective excavator.

The voyage along the Spray is one feast after another. Pegwai Dih turns out to have cousins and collaterals in nearly every port they visit, whether that's on a tiny Ber, a larger Bretel, or one of the heart islands they call the Leskets. He introduces Maggí as one to be valued and is seduced by the warmth and welcome and the wonderful food into telling over and over the story of the quest, of Skeen and Timka, the tragic death of the loyal Aggitj Domi, the terrible circumstances of the Boy. He cajoles Lipitero to come exhibit herself to folk who treat her with the most delicate of courtesies and an unabashed delight in possessing though only for the moment one of the wonders of Mistommerk, a magical mythical creature whose alien beauty will inspire their artists and musicians for seasons to come.

Feast to feast, rumor running before them, they progress along the Spray. But even pleasant things must end. They reach the end of the Spray, the island group Lisshin Tula and one of its Bretels, Tiya Muka. This is a middle-sized island inside a crazy maze of waterways around Bers that are little more than dots of rock, though some of them soar more than two hundred meters from the agitated surface of the Tenga Bourhh. It is a smuggler's haven whose splendid harbor is inaccessible to ships without a local pilot to guide them through the confusion of the Bers and none get a pilot without being “known.” Maggí knows and is “known” and slides into port and a friendly welcome from Hannahar Tech who is the self-appointed Headman of the eclectic collection of Wavers living on Tiya Muka.

Skeen strolled out of the bathhouse rubbing vigorously at her hair, a heavy toweling robe tied about her, flapping about her long legs as she climbed through the blooming har trees, savoring their delicate rather astringent scent and the crunch of coarse sand underfoot. She came out atop a steep slope of broken rock above a secluded inlet, a part of the harbor where no houses were built by edict of Hannahar Tech who jealously protected his favorite vistas. She settled on a boulder windworn smooth. No wind this day, just a silken soft flow of air up from water so saturated with color the blueness was an assault on her eyes. She gave a last rub at her head, dropped the towel beside her, shook her spiky hair out from her head, sighed with pleassure. I could get to like this. The placid scene stretching out before her brought memories of the time when she was a skinny desperate teener, recently escaped from the fish cannery and trying to claw her way off a world that would kill her if she didn't because she wasn't going to be caught again. Ever. She listened to the water lapping in a slow steady rhythm against the barnacled rocks below her. If I didn't have to stay here forever. A little lapping water goes a long way. She closed her eyes, leaned against the twisted, rock-hard dead tree behind her, remembering that other time, that other vast green park with its ornamental water and ornamental beasts, so violent a contrast with everything she'd known she was in a state of churning rage the whole time she was there; it was a lacerating memory in one way, pleasurable in another; that park and the monstrous house that sat in the middle of it marked her first real triumph, the place where she managed to get her life into her own hands. Bona Fortuna and some fancy footwork got her over the wall, her hard-won skills and a massive dose of patience eased her into the house. She broke into the house brain and stumbled onto information about the High Hipe who owned the house that bought her a small ancient ship and a pilot to fly it for her; he was supposed to dispose of her when she was far enough from Tors, but she worked a deal with him too and got her first lessons in ship handling and navigation. It was years later that she acquired Picarefy.… She uncoiled, heeled a rock down the slope, starting a small slide that didn't quite reach the water. Fuckin' stupid world! How much longer, how much longer, how can I stand the waiting, the fuckin' stinkin' endless slog getting nowhere? She looked round for the towel. It was time, more than time to be getting back to the Inn, more than time to start goosing Maggí into finding them transport out of here.

A flutter of wings behind her. She jumped away, turning as she came down. “Djabo! Chul, don't do that. You'll give me a heart attack or something.”

Chulji worked his mouthparts in a Skirrik grin. “Wanted to talk to you.”

“Walk with me then.” She scooped up the towel and draped it over her shoulder. “I don't want to stay here any longer.”

The path was too narrow at first to let them walk together. Skeen went along it toward the town, almost loping in her drive to get on her way again.

“Eh, Skeen, slow down will you? How can I talk if you gallop like that?”

“Sorry. What is it, Chul? Thing is, I'm a bit fidgety today.”

“I noticed.” He scrambled down beside her and walked along for several paces without saying anything. Finally he clattered his pincers and pulled his top pair of shoulders up near his earholes. “Skeen, I've been thinking.”

She looked down at him, and smothered a grin; he was so earnest, so very young. “A good habit to get into,” she said gravely.

“T'spp, t'spp, no need to be sarcastic. What I want to say, from here on I'd be baggage, so I'm going to stay with Maggí. She needs me and she's promised to get a discount for me at some jet mines she knows. It's a good job and everyone's friendly. So what do you think?”